Roses for Roselyn (Niall and Harry Fanfictions)

She was just an ordinary, grounded girl with a young, obsessive sister... little did she know that her sister's biggest idol was obsessing over her. Join Rosie and Rachel on their journey in love, friendship, obsession, fame and passion. What will happen? Who will happen? And most importantly, how will they cope with the disadvantages of 'the good life'?

120. Drunken Mistakes and Beautiful Notes

RACHEL’S POV:

It’s early morning after the concert. I’m as drunk as fuck. Shots, whiskey and a whole bottle of vodka are coursing through my body –repulsing me and playing weird thoughts in my mind.

“Have you got them?” I wobble over on my feet, nearly slamming my head against the kitchen cupboards as I grab two of the bottles nearest to me. I can hardly see what they are and put them right up to my eyes to read the writing. My eyesight is fucked. I’m fucked, to be quite honest.

“Yeah… here.” I slump back into my lounge and throw one of the bottles across the room. It nearly hits the ground, and I regret it as soon as it’s out of my hands –bracing my ears for the sound of shattering glass- when he catches it and snaps the neck of the bottle open.

“Jack Daniels. Great choice.”

“It wasn’t a choice…” I slur out before falling backwards onto the sofa across the room from him. I’m not sure if I decided to fall either –maybe I’m unconscious now. Who knows? It sound’s peaceful.

“Aren’t you going to drink it?” He watches me expectantly and I twist the lid off.

“Depends… What the fuck is it?”

I’m laughed at. “Tequila babe. To the end of this term, and an amazing Christmas holiday!” I don’t want to drink it and I don’t want to respond to the toast. I’ve already had way over double of any average person’s daily alcohol units. I’m sure this is counted as binge drinking. I want to run into a wall and stop the pounding in my head but he’s still waiting for me to drink it.

I gulp the fiery liquid down; nearly puking at the after taste and swing the bottle so that it pours over my chest. “Whooopsie.” I have a fit of the giggles when he comes over to help me.

I feel dirty under his disgusted stare. It’s familiar. “Erghh… look at you. You’re a fucking mess.” I want to roll away, scrambling my feet around at the other arm of the sofa to twist away from him –for a particular reason that I don’t remember- when he catches my shoulder and pulls me back harshly. “Do you want it to go on the sofa?”

“Ow…” I lie still and wait whilst he mops my chest up with the bottom hem of his t-shirt.

“Did that hurt? Seriously, don’t be fucking stupid. Budge up.” I don’t feel any control over my legs and so he pushes them off the couch to sit next to me. I definitely shouldn’t drink anymore but as I reach to the table to put the bottle down his large hand stops me and makes me take it back.

“Drink it.”

“I don’t want it.” He stares at me rigidly so I take a tiny sip and avert my eyes which have trouble focusing on anything 5cms from my nose. “Are you trying to get me drunk, hm?”

“Because… I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore. I still miss you. I love you.”

“So you’re getting me drunk because you know that I’d be angry… if I were-was sober? That’s not l-l” I’m having difficulty saying the word through my stuttery slurring “What’s the word…love?” One of his horribly clammy hands crawls across the tops of my legs, making me shiver. He notices it and mistakes it for a signal to go ahead. The next thing I know is that I’m being pinned on the sofa and his mouth is against mine, his tongue sloppily searching for a way into my tightly closed mouth.

I can’t move… I can’t… I can’t kiss him. No. This is Miles. I can’t kiss Miles. I drop the bottle on the floor, adding extra force to guarantee its fatality, and it smashes. He jumps up and swears extremely loudly, notices the bottle and then turns his head to ignore it, sighing at my purpose stupidity.

I take advantage of the breather. “Miles. Miles get off.” The fear must have sobered me up a little because I’m suddenly aware of everything. He’s ignoring me. I need help. Help… “Miles!”

“What?” His voice is aggravated as he’s forced to break apart from my still lips and wide eyes.

“Get off.” I can’t stop his hand from roaming under my shirt quick enough. “Miles fuck off!” The look in his eyes and his sad attempts at groping me make me feel sick –and this time the alcohol certainly isn’t the influence.

“What? You said I could come in?”

“Yes because I’m fucking drunk. I don’t want this though… and you’re just taking advantage of me. 'Come in' doesn't mean have sex with me!”

“No, I’m not. Come on… You won’t remember much in the morning, does it really matter?” He leans back into kiss me and I feel his hands roaming new and far more extreme and private places. What do I do? What do I-? I scream. I scream at the top of my lungs, forcing him off of me and to wake the rest of the house up.

Every time this used to happen before, I would just suffer it in silence and try to forget about what had happened when I saw him the next morning; but not now. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” A hand is clamped over my mouth. I’m gripping the couch as tightly as possible with my fingers.

Miles musn’t have heard the movement in the floorboards upstairs because he starts trying to calm me down and get me back into the mood, drunkenly grinding his hips slightly. There’s no way that’s happening now.

“Dad! Mum!” I scream through his hand and it comes out muffled. Luckily they must have heard the bottle and my screaming because my dad is suddenly running down the stairs, shortly followed by my mum, and they ultimately burst through the doorway –disguised with signs of broken sleep- before Miles can even move his hand from my mouth.

“Get the fuck off my daughter!” There are a series of screams and shouts as Miles is forced out of the front door –only giving him enough time to grab his phone from the coffee table- and suddenly my mum is sitting next to me –clutching my hands and patting the sides of my face.

“She’s in shock.” She tells my father.

“Well of course she is. The fucking creep had his hands over her mouth. What was he doing to you? Actually, I don't want to know. I’m calling the police.”

“I don’t know if it’s for the best…” My mum reasons with doubt.

I don’t have much time to think before my drunken-self calls out “No, it is. Call them. I need him out of my life.”

Dad goes to the hall to start the phone call and my mum takes my hand whilst she gets up from the sofa. "What's happened baby? This is Miles we're talking about... He's -sorry, was- your boyfriend. Whatever's happened that means the police needs to be involved?"

Her tired eyes look worried sick as she crouches in front of me, supporting herself on my knees. I try to tell her. I try to say something -anything- but I cant. I shake my head with an agape mouth, no longer bothering to control my facial expressions.

“I don’t know what's happened or how much you’ve drunken -which I’m not too happy about by the way- but either way you’re going to need a clear head to talk to me, your father and the police. I’ll go and get some strong coffee and water.” I just nod. How much will I tell them? Is it really a good idea to do this? I don’t know…

Miles’ jacket is still on the couch opposite, forcing me to cower into the back of the sofa I’m sitting on and pull my knees and legs up to my chest. What just happened?

I’m searching for my mobile down the back of the sofa when I pull something else out that’s been lodged in between the leather. It’s a note. A blue and yellow flyer to be exact –in fact it’s one of the same ones that I was in charge of handing out and trashing earlier. It’s one of the ones that I threw at Harry, earlier in my blind rage; right before I fled to the toilets and broke down in miserable tears. But how did it get here?

I open it up and inside there is a message, in the large, familiar scribble of a sharpie pen. ‘How many times can I say sorry to show you that I really mean it? Sorry. I’m sorry. Really sorry.’ I laugh –not bitterly, but in the mad drunken laugh that people have under the influence of alcohol- because underneath Harry has scribbled his signature in his big curvy letters. 'Harry :( xx'

There’s also a number 7 on the bottom left corner of the paper. What does that mean? Has he written more messages? But most importantly, how did it get here? It's beautiful... I can't comprehend how perfect the timing was. It makes my eyes water in guilt for how little time I have allowed him to explain himself.

“Harry… Oh Haz, I wish you were here.” I’m hurt; I’m angered by him, but that doesn’t stop me from revealing my true feelings for him with all of these chemicals running through my blood. Maybe the anger is just a result of feeling betrayed; of course it is. It’s scary how much clearer my thoughts are when I’m drunk. Maybe I should do this more often. Actually, considering what just happened I don’t think that’s a good idea.

“I need to talk to you Harry…” It’s just a whisper but when I do find my phone, and I’ve manically scrolled to his contact whilst tears threaten to break me down once again, I don’t think that I’m in a good enough state to do so, especially now that my father’s confirmed that a police officer is on their way to talk to me now. It’s also 2:47am, meaning that Harry is probably in bed right now. I'm a mess. I throw my phone across the room and try to sort myself out; biting my lip until I taste blood and the tears have gone.

I only found out about Kendall a few days but it feels longer. I've missed talking to him; no matter how much I try to deny it, it's still true. Rosie said I at least needed to give him a chance to explain what’s been happening. Apparently it’s extremely important, even though I stubbornly wouldn’t acknowledge it earlier. I’ll ring him tomorrow.

For now, I just have to concentrate on drinking the black cup of coffee that mum’s just pressed into my hand and the police woman –a lovely and soft looking blonde woman- that says she would like to speak to me privately before involving my parents. I agree; it will prolong their worry over what’s been going on between me and Miles, right under their noses, for the past two years.

I’ve finally decided; I’m going to come clean about everything that’s ever happened. Literally. I could regret it in the morning. I could especially regret it when I have to tell everyone what's happened, at the party tomorrow. I’ll have to admit that I was weak enough let Miles back in when I was most vulnerable; already half-drunk from drowning my whole three days worth of sorrows. They’ll think I need help; with the alcohol and the past abuse. I don’t. I just need some people to rely on.

But it doesn’t matter, because I need Miles out of my life and the more information I can give them, the better. I could regret but, like I said, I don’t care. He’s going down. We’ll see who’s going to ‘pay for this’ now.